


Somewhere, a part of my life

by ManhattanMom



Series: Never Near Enough [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, tagged "mature" for rest of the series, this particular fic pretty tame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1293046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManhattanMom/pseuds/ManhattanMom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur is content with his life in Ered Luin and doesn't care one way or the other about these new dwarves from Erebor heading their way...until he meets their leader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere, a part of my life

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a ridiculously long story about Bofur and Thorin, and then Bofur and Bilbo after Thorin's death. This first bit may end up being folded into the larger narrative but for now, enjoy it on its own while I finish up the rest of it.
> 
> The title for this story come from the lyrics for a really romantic song called "Not A Day Goes By" from Sondheim's Merrily We Roll Along.
> 
> The series title was inspired by the lyrics from another musical theater song called "I Couldn't be With Anyone But You", from the musical A Wonderful Life.
> 
> What can I say? Musicals are awesome.

The day the Ereborean dwarves began to arrive was accompanied by little fanfare.  Bofur made a point of ignoring political rumours, having long since decided such things had no bearing on his life or the lives of his family, and that the less he knew of them the better; but it was impossible to remain totally ignorant of some things.  

 

Word was after Thrór perished at Khazad-dûm his grandson Thorin had petitioned all the Houses, asking for aid and looking for a place to finally settle what remained of his people.

 

Presumably the leaders of the Broadbeams and Firebeads, the original colonists of the Blue Mountains, had agreed to allow them into Ered Luin, because gossip had Thorin leading a large group of Longbeard dwarves their way.  How large no one quite knew and opinions on the appropriate response to these newcomers ran the gamut, from welcoming enthusiasm to fearful disregard.

 

Bofur himself could not be bothered either way.  As long as his job in the mines was not disrupted, he was happy to share his home.

 

*

 

By sheer happenstance he was among the first to see them.

 

He and three other miners were enjoying a short break from the day’s work on the side of the mountain, sharing a pipe and trading stories; when Hvén, a stout, green-eyed dwarf with thick black hair whom Bofur had been eyeing with interest abruptly shouted, “There!  In the distance!  Here they come!”

 

They all had leapt to their feet and peered out to the east, watching in silence as the Dwarves of Erebor made their way toward them.

 

“Aye,” Bofur said, the pipe suddenly forgotten.  “I see them.”

 

What he meant was, ‘I see _him_.’

 

*

 

They all four scrambled back into the mountain, and Bofur proceeded to use the full force of his charm to wheedle the foreman into calling the end of the day early, so that all who wished to might rush to the front gates and gape as these strange new dwarves entered their home.

 

Bofur was practically tripping over himself in his eagerness to get a better look at the one who’d caught his eye from a distance.  

 

In his enthusiasm it had not occurred to him that he was covered in dirt and dust, and looked far from presentable.  He only knew he had to see that dwarf again, see what color his eyes were, see the braids he wore in his hair.

 

 _There is no possibility a dwarf like that is unattached,_ he warned himself as he raced through the streets from the mines to the city’s entrance.   _He is almost certainly either married or courting.  Best prepare yourself now to avoid bitter disappointment._

 

His heart was racing and it was not all from his frenzied pace.

 

He whipped around the final corner and collided with something, falling back gracelessly on his rear end, the breath knocked out of him.

 

Without thought, his eagerness now a burning fever, he clambered up as quickly as he could, dipped his head and murmured, “Apologies.  In a bit of a hurry, as you can see,” as he gathered himself to sprint for the gates.

 

The voice that responded froze him in his tracks, eyes wide and blood thrumming in his veins.

 

“The fault was mine, friend.  I should not be standing in the middle of street.”

 

And that was how Bofur met Thorin Oakenshield.

 

*

 

His face was lined and worn, and his dark hair upon closer inspection proved to be shot through with threads of silver.  He carried himself almost regally - a dwarf who was accustomed to being listened to, and he was dressed in a large, well-used traveling coat trimmed with fraying grey fur.

 

But it was his eyes that rendered Bofur uncharacteristically speechless.

 

They were cerulean blue, a color that was very unusual for their people - the color of the clearest sky, deep and rich and vibrant; but they were sad, too, and very weary.  The dwarf in question did not look old enough to have such worn eyes and when Bofur’s befuddled mind had a moment to process that and think, he realized belatedly exactly who it must be that held him so enthralled.

 

Then the dwarf spoke again.

 

“You are all right, yes?” and he sounded concerned.

 

Bofur’s mouth opened but only a quiet hiss came out.  He swallowed, trying again.

 

“m’fine,” he managed thickly.  “Apologies again.”

 

He could not tear his eyes away, despite knowing he had to look utterly ridiculous.  He reached up to scratch his head absently and suddenly became very aware just how dirty he was.  He longed to wipe his face but knew his filthy hands would only make everything worse.  

 

His heart began thudding even harder, a wretched self-consciousness now added to all the other emotions whipping through him.

 

And still he stood and stared.

 

And still the other dwarf _(Thorin, it must be Thorin Oakenshield)_ did too.

 

He spoke again, and the sound of his voice, so dark and full and deep, sent shivers up Bofur’s spine.  His hands itched to reach out and touch the dwarf’s cheek, to feel that beard, cut so short, to caress his jaw and gently pull him forward -

 

“No need for that.  As long as you’re all right.”

 

Bofur blinked.

 

 _In the name of all we hold sacred!_ he thought wildly.   _Had he not spoken would I have actually leaned over and_ kissed _him?_

 

_Why can I not stop staring at him??_

 

The other dwarf smiled slightly and Bofur felt his body flush all over.  

 

It was now even more difficult to look away.  The dwarf’s smile had an air about it of being very exceptional, as if it was hardly ever seen and thus carried more weight than just any simple smile.  It felt fleeting and rare, like precious treasure.

 

Bofur was sure he had never seen anything quite like it.

 

“Thorin son of Thrain, at your service,” the other dwarf said and then he lowered his head a bit.  It was not quite a bow but much more than a nod, and definitely more than someone of Bofur’s status was used to receiving from almost anyone, most certainly royalty.

 

It made him feel uncomfortable, so he did what he always did when he felt that way.

 

He talked.

 

“Bofur, son of Lembur, at yours,” he said, a false, nearly frenetic cheeriness coloring his words.  “Welcome to the Blue Mountains, Master Thorin, you and yours.  Should you find yourself needing anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to ask.  I mean, certainly someone of your importance has dwarves to handle most anything for you but if something should arise that I could assist you with - “

 

He cut off abruptly, the double meaning of his words sinking in.

 

_no no no nonononono!!   Fix it, you idiot!_

“I mean,” he hastily amended, “if anything comes up that you need help with - “

 

 _Not like that!_ his mind shrieked.

 

Dimly he heard a laugh and a female voice say, “Thorin, for the love of Durin, put him out of his misery and agree to meet him later.  We can all see that you want to.  And make haste - the boys need to sit down, they’re exhausted.”

 

Bofur was not quite so flustered and humiliated that his ears did not perk up when he heard children mentioned.

 

He scanned the group standing behind Thorin, noticing and taking them in for the first time since he’d run into Thorin and fallen...in more ways than one.

 

The same group included two male dwarves and one female, and two young lads.  The males looked to be brothers although one was considerably smaller and older than the other; they shared the same eyes and nose, although the tall one looked terribly fierce and angry while the older one appeared quietly amused.

 

The boys belonged to the female, that much was clear.  The smaller one seemed barely out of his toddling years and he clung to her leg firmly with one hand, the other hand clutching a wooden pony that had seen better days.

 

The other boy was older, though not by much.  His hair was blond, almost as unusual as Thorin’s blue eyes, and though he did not hold his mother’s hand he looked as if he wanted to.  He stood with his feet spaced widely apart, chin up and chest out, like a tiny warrior, but his eyes held a shadow of nervousness in the face of so many strange sights and sounds.

 

Bofur stepped forward slowly, not wanted to make the lad more uneasy, and squatted down on his heels when he was a little closer to the group.

 

“And what have we here?” he said gently, directing his attention to the smaller, dark haired boy.  He put one hand out slightly.  “That’s a fine looking pony you have there.  May I?”

 

The boy hesitated a moment and looked over at his brother, who nodded.  

 

Bofur was surprised such a young dwarfling would not look to his mother first, and he glanced up at her in time to see her share an amused look with Thorin.  Apparently, it was not the first time her position had been usurped by her older child.

 

 _Children…?_  he then realized.   _Are they...could they be his?  And this his wife?  But she said -_

His thoughts were interrupted by the little dwarfling pressing the shabby pony into his outstretched hand.

 

He looked down at it, turning it carefully over in his hands.  He looked back up at the child.

 

“Is this a good friend of yours, then?” he asked.  “He looks as if he has traveled with you for quite some time.”

 

The older, white-haired dwarf smiled widely while the tall one snorted.

 

“That’s a generous way to put it,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Bofur glanced up at them and then back down at the tiny dwarf, who was looking at him very intensely, as if trying to see inside his heart and read what his true intentions with the pony were.

 

“What’s his name?” Bofur asked.

 

The dwarfling hesitated, and his brother nudged him very gently.

 

“Thûri,” the little one told him softly.  “His name is Thûri.”

 

Bofur held the pony up to eye level and said, “Well met, Thûri.  Bofur, at your service.”

 

There was a pause, and then the little dwarf said, rather kindly, “He’s not a real pony, you know.  He’s just a toy pony.”

 

Everyone around him burst into laughter, and Bofur grinned widely at the dwarfling.  His feelings for Thorin might be wild and confusing but he was quite clear on how he felt about this child.  

 

He was completely and utterly besotted.  

 

"Aye, young master," he said agreeably, still smiling, "but just because he's a toy doesn't mean he's not real.  Didn't you know that?  He's as real as your imagination can make him, which I'll wager is quite real indeed."

 

The tiny dwarf nodded vigorously and said, "I pretend he's ridden into battle more times than I can count!  And that he's saved the king, and traveled all the way to the sea, and he's the fastest pony in all of Middle Earth!  He's the absolute best, Mister - "

 

His eyes grew wide with dismay as he looked up at Bofur, having clearly forgotten his name.

 

"Bofur," Bofur reminded him with a pat on his head.  "Just Bofur for me, if you please.  And I'm very pleased to learn so much about Thûri as I could tell from the start he was a marvelously unique pony of many skills.  And if you like, and your mother - " he looked up at the dwarowdam questioningly, and she nodded, her eyes twinkling - "and your mother agrees, I'd be happy to return him to his former glory.  I'm a bit of an expert in helping toys regain their beauty, if I do say so myself."

 

The lad now looked as if he might burst, and he grasped his mother's hand excitedly and said, "Oh, Mama - please?  Can Bofur please fix Thûri?  He needs help ever so badly!  Please?  Please, please?"

 

He was almost whining and yet his charm and sincere excitement were enough to keep it from sliding into that.  He shook his mother's hand again and then turned to Thorin.

 

"Uncle, please?  Bofur says he can fix him up and I just know he can!  Please, may we let him try?"

 

His eyes now grew wide as saucers, so large and dark in his small face that Bofur felt his heart break open a bit.  It wasn't at all painful - it was more a feeling of coming home, of rightness; as if he had been marking time his whole life to this point, waiting for these dwarves to arrive and turn his world on its head.

 

Then it hit him - _uncle._

 

His relief was as palpable as if he'd been doused with water or slapped on the face.

 

He looked up again at Thorin, really looked, and rejoiced inside when he saw there were no courtship braids, nor braids of intent woven into his thick hair.  There were only two small braids, one at each temple, and they seemed to be clan braids.  He wore no braids denoting his royal status.  Bofur was almost shocked until he realized anonymity was likely vital while living on the road and then felt foolish for not having thought of that sooner.

 

He stood, brushing his knees off, and said gently, “Now lad, no need to do anything just yet.  I’m sure your family would like to make sure Thûri is in good hands first, before entrusting him to me.”

 

He glanced over at Thorin, and his heart stuttered when he saw the other dwarf looking right back at him, a bemused expression on his face, and that small smile as well.

 

When Thorin noticed Bofur looking at him, his smile widened, and Bofur’s heart stopped for a beat, and then began slamming in his chest rather alarmingly.

 

He exhaled, tore his eyes away and tried to focus on the child’s mother.

 

“You may ask any around here,” he said, his voice sounding oddly hollow and far away, muffled under the pounding of his blood in his ears.  “My cousin Bifur and I do a fair bit of business making toys, and we are well-known and respected.  We work out of a stall at the monthly bazaar - one week’s time from now.  Ask after me and if you’re content with what you hear come visit us and I’ll see to the lad’s toy.”

 

The gruff-looking tall one snorted again.

 

“We’ve no sooner set foot here before we are set upon by merchants with their hands already in our pockets,” he sneered, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.

 

Bofur’s face flushed to be accused in such a way.

 

“Free of charge, of course,” he added, pasting a smile on his face and directing it toward the grim-looking dwarf.  “I could never accept payment for something like that.”

 

His eyes darted back toward Thorin, horrified it might seem to him that Bofur had been merely soliciting business when he was really -

 

What?  What _was_ he doing?  Besides standing here behaving as foolishly as a thirty year old with his first wild crush?

 

He had never been so nervous before.  His whole being hummed and it felt as if his skin was on too tightly...and he could not look away from Thorin but he _had_ to because he was staring again…

 

And how had this _happened?_  Why was he insisting on standing here in the middle of everything, with so many others around, staring and blathering away and all the while covered with dust and dirt?

 

He opened his mouth to excuse himself, feeling totally out of place and suddenly shy, when the smaller, older dwarf spoke up.

 

“Here, now,” he said mildly to the frightening-looking one, “I fear you are being quite unfair to Mister Bofur.  He is extending his hand in friendship, that much is clear; and I do not believe he has a financial motivation, standing here speaking with us.”

 

He and the dwarrowdam then shared a quick glance and she began laughing a little as he chuckled and said, “No, dear me, no.  I don’t think that’s the primary concern here at all.”

 

Bofur thought his ears might actually catch on fire, they felt so hot.  He wanted to sink into the earth and escape this mirth at his expense; everyone laughing at how obvious and foolish he was being.

 

He shook his head and mumbled his apologies, excusing himself, when suddenly the older of the boys spoke up.

 

“If you make toys, why are you so dirty?” he asked, his voice clear as a bell, cutting through the laughter.

 

_Ah, here we have it.  Now he will know the truth of it._

 

The dwarrowdam hissed, “Fíli!  That’s terribly rude!  Apologize this moment.”

 

Bofur sighed, and resignedly said, “Oh, there’s no need, ma’am.  Only he’s right - I am a bit dusty.”

 

He looked down at the lad, who looked a bit chastened, and said, “I only make toys in my spare time, you see.  I’m a miner by trade.  Like my father and his father before him.  It’s how I support our family.”

 

Finally Thorin spoke again.

 

“Fíli, apologize to Mister Bofur at once.”

 

Bofur fought the dueling urges to cover his face and/or possibly flee altogether.

 

What had once seemed so promising could now not be going more horribly.

 

Fíli muttered, “I’m sorry, Mister Bofur.”

 

Cringing inwardly, Bofur tried to keep his voice as light as he could as he said, “There’s no harm done, lad.  It was an honest question and I gave it an honest answer.”

 

He looked up at Thorin again and nodded his head.

 

“It was…” _thrilling? bewildering? stunning? heartbreaking?_ “...a pleasure to meet you all.  Again, welcome to Ered Luin.  May our paths cross again someday.”

 

He turned to leave as gracefully as possible given the circumstances when Thorin’s voice stopped him.

 

“Perhaps you and...your family would join us for a meal, Mister Bofur?  I know Kíli would enjoy that very much.”

 

“Kíli, my arse,” Bofur heard the tall one say under his breath, and the other two snorted in quickly suppressed laughter.

 

_Fíli and Kíli.  Like two sides of the same coin._

“And I’m sure both the boys would be happy to meet your children,” Thorin continued, shooting the others a fierce look that only served to make their shoulders shake even harder as they struggled to control themselves.

 

Bofur gathered his courage and cleared his throat.

 

“I don’t have any children,” he said, watching Thorin carefully.  “No partner either.  It’s my cousin, my brother and his wife and their four children...and me, of course.”

 

“No children,” said Thorin.

 

“Not of my own, just my niece and nephews,” Bofur agreed.

 

“And no partner,” said Thorin.

 

Bofur shook his head.

 

“Ah,” said Thorin.

 

By now even the large, intimidating dwarf was looking amused.

 

Bofur stood watching Thorin, and tried very hard not to read too much into the way Thorin looked right back at him.

 

Finally the younger lad - Kíli - spoke up.

 

“May we go now?”  he asked.  “We will see Mister Bofur for supper, yes?  That’s not so very long from now and I want to see our new house, please.”

 

Thorin broke their gaze _(reluctantly??)_ to look down at Kíli fondly.

 

“Yes, little one, we can go now,” he said softly, ruffling the lad’s hair.  “I thank you for your patience.”

 

“Yay, yay, yay!!!” yelled Kíli.  “Come on, Fee - let’s go!”

 

He grabbed his brother’s hand and began dragging him away, the older one doing his best to anchor the two of them until the adults were truly ready to leave.

 

Thorin looked back over at Bofur.

 

“Tonight, then?” he asked, and Bofur’s heart leapt to hear an unmistakable note of hope in the other’s voice.

 

“Tonight,” he said, and smiled.

 

*

The rest of the day leading up to supper felt as if it lasted one hundred years.

 

They had arrived promptly but not too early - Bofur being loathe to appear even more eager than he clearly already had - and Nirra had insisted on bringing not only wine, though they could ill afford it, but the fresh loaf of cinnamon bread Bombur had baked that morning and six bright red apples from the dozen Bifur had brought home the day before.  

 

That his cousin had been reluctant to agree to sharing them confirmed Bofur’s suspicion that they had been acquired in an unorthodox if not downright illegal way, but Nirra was quite firm that they take the best of what they had to offer, lest they come across as poor and ill-mannered.

 

“We _are_ poor,” Bombur pointed out quite reasonably as they packed up the food.  “I don’t see the point in trying to appear to be anything other than what we are.”

 

“Poor we may be but I won’t have us look as if we don’t know what is expected of us,” Nirra countered.  “Any guest with manners knows to bring something to share, and it should be something worthy.”

 

“Perhaps, but how does all this do Bofur any good?” Bombur argued stubbornly.   “Best make this Thorin fall for him on his own merits, and not because we have occasional and highly suspect access to apples.”

 

Bifur laughed and gestured, **‘Suspect’ is a good way to put it.  Be careful who sees those on the way over, eh?**

 

He and Bombur burst into laughter at that.

 

Bofur, who had cleaned up as best he could and was now so nervous he was about to jangle into a thousand pieces, barked, “Will you both please control yourselves?  Be quiet and do whatever Nirra says, I trust her more with this than I do the two of you fools.”

 

Bombur hooted at that.

 

“Well, if this is your way of telling us you fear we are not fancy enough for your new love I have a wise word for you:  You are absolutely correct.  And I for one am going to behave as I always do, because if that is good enough for you lot then it’s good enough for the likes of them, royal or no.”

 

Bofur’s jaw fell open and he looked pleadingly to Nirra, his expression of helpless horror making her laugh.

 

“Now Bombur,” she said sweetly, rubbing her husband’s expansive back, “can we not go easy on your poor brother?  I’ll admit I’ve never seen him in such a state, and that tells me how invested he is in all this.  So for him, might you consider holding back just a little at supper?  Perhaps not hitting them with all that is good and glorious in you on the very first night?”

 

Popping a piece of sweet roll in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully, Bombur stuck out his chest and threw his shoulders back.

 

“For you, my heart, I will strive to make sure there is no belching or farting," he offered gallantly, "but I cannot promise not to throw food if the occasion demands it.”

 

“Bombur, please!” Bofur wailed, unable to help himself.  “If you have ever loved me, _please_ behave yourself tonight!  I am already on shaky footing with his - I don’t know, cousin, friend, general - whomever that positively enormous dwarf with the scowl was.  I don’t need you mucking things up even further!”

 

 **Couldn’t work your charm on that one, eh?** Bifur gestured with a grin.   **And how does _that_ feel, I wonder?**

 

“Truly dreadful,” Bofur admitted with a sigh.  “I mean, I know I am not perfect but it’s been many years since I have not been able to coax a smile out of someone, especially if I set my mind to it.”

 

“Smiles aren’t all you’re used to coaxing there, brother,” Bombur murmured, and yelped when Nirra smacked him hard on his enormous arm.

 

Bifur laughed again as Bofur rounded on his brother.

 

“And not one word of any of that!” he practically hissed.  “I don’t want them to get the wrong impression of me!”

 

“And what impression is that?” Bombur asked innocently, dancing out of the way of Nirra’s grasp.  “That you enjoy fucking any good looking dwarrow, and even some that are not so good looking, that doesn't get out of your way in time?”

 

Bofur began to clamber over the table to reach Bombur but Bifur was too quick for him.  He grasped Bofur’s feet and pulled hard and Bofur slipped and knocked his head on the table.

 

 **Quiet now, the two of you!**   Bifur signed firmly.   **Bombur, stop teasing your brother so.  Anyone can see he’s good and gone over this Thorin and you poking at him is only serving to put him ill at ease on a night that could prove to be very important for him.**

 

Bofur threw a triumphant look at Bombur before Bifur continued, **And you, Bofur.  Make no mistake - we all support you in this but never make us feel as if we are lacking because of who we are or what we do.  We are all lucky to be a part of this family, and I won’t have you falling in love make us lose sight of that.**

 

“Love?” Bofur sputtered.  “Oi!  I’ve only just met him!  Why are you talking about love?”

 

“Because,” Nirra said, smiling gently, “it’s as plain as that ridiculous hat on your head.”

 

*

 

Nirra and Dís got along famously.

 

Thorin’s sister was the one to answer the door when Bofur knocked and the smile on her face as she finally introduced himself went a long way toward settling his nerves, which had kicked up again as they’d walked over, all eight of them.

 

 _Surely they did not really mean for me to bring everyone,_ he fretted.   _And now I’m about to look a right fool, tromping over with close to a dozen of us.  More fodder for that giant to roll his eyes over, I suppose…_

 

But seeing the genuine pleasure in Dís’s eyes soothed him considerably.

 

She ushered them all in, exclaiming over his tiny niece as well as the apples, and introduced them all to the dwarves Bofur had met earlier that day.

 

He was a little proud of himself for correctly guessing that Dwalin (the frightening one) and Balin (the kind, older one) were brothers, and they and Bifur took to each other right away, the common tie of Azanulbizar binding them together.  

 

Bofur knew Thorin had fought there as well, had earned the name Oakenshield leading their people against the orcs once his grandfather had been beheaded, but he did not know how to address all that.  He had never been to war - he and Bombur had been too young for Azanulbizar, and any of the conflicts since then had either been minor or very far away and did not affect him and his family enough to warrant the risk.

 

He had never thought much about it before.  He’d been happy taking care of his family and staying put in the place in which he’d been born; but all at once the scope of his life seemed small and a little pathetic when measured against such courage and skill.

 

So he sat, and ate quietly, and looked around the supper table.

 

The boys had all run to the second floor of the house, presumably to Kíli and Fíli’s new bedroom, to play warriors and orcs with a battered set of figurines Dís had produced from somewhere.  His nephews were close to the same age as Thorin’s - Nárbur a bit older than Fíli and the twins Lifur and Lembur about Kíli’s age - and they all seemed very content to chase and beat on each other for as long as the adults would let them.

 

Bombur and Nirra’s daughter Míla was too little to play so roughly, and very shy.  She had chosen to stay by her mother when the boys all ran off but had migrated to Bofur’s lap as the adults all finished their supper and lingered over slices of apple.

 

He stroked her hair absently as she dozed, trying to sneaks little glances at Thorin when he thought the other would not notice.

 

He looked as regal as he had earlier but here in his new home he seemed...softer, somehow; less burdened and more rested, the lines on his face smoother and his eyes less guarded.

 

His profile was strong - a large, sharp nose and high cheekbones setting off a hard, square jaw.  The closely cropped beard was something Bofur had never really seen on a dwarf before and he wondered about it.  Was it a sign of mourning, or something even darker?

 

At such a close distance, Bofur could see the streaks of silver in his hair were almost white, tiny threads scattered throughout the thick, glossy mane of black; and that the only two braids he wore were the two Bofur had seen earlier, the ones indicating he was a Longbeard.  They were thin but very intricate.

 

Bofur felt his mouth go dry as he pictured his hands running through that hair, the strands parting like dark water, and then grasping a heavy handful of it and pulling Thorin’s head up to -

 

“Oi, Bofur!”

 

He jumped, and snapped around toward the voice.

 

Bombur sat there grinning at him, his arms crossed over his burly chest.

 

“Had to call your name three times before you heard me,” he smirked.  “What has captured your attention so thoroughly, brother mine, hmmm?”

 

And then he began to laugh...and was joined in short order by Dwalin and Balin, and then Bifur.  

 

Nirra and Dís did not actually laugh, but their eyes danced and Nirra leaned in to whisper something to Dís that made her snort and slap her leg in mirth.

 

If Bofur had thought he was embarrassed that afternoon it was nothing compared to how he felt now.  He closed his eyes and cradled his niece to him, as if her sweetly sleeping form could somehow ward off the humiliation coursing through him.

 

When at last he opened his eyes Thorin was looking right at him.

 

Bofur sucked in a surprised breath, then let it out slowly as he looked back, hoping his face conveyed the regretful consternation he was feeling.

 

And then Thorin smiled.  Widely.   _At him._

 

“Care to sit outside for a bit?” he asked quietly, and that voice, that _voice_ , just moved right through Bofur, as if he were made of warm butter.

 

“Uhhhhh,” was all he could manage.

 

“Mahal above, Bofur, just _go_ ,” Nirra said, exasperated.  “I’ll take the baby.  Just please, for all our sakes, go.”

 

She rose and before Bofur could object she’d carefully, with a mother’s precision, lifted Míla out of his lap and settled back down with her curled up against her shoulder.

 

“Now, off with you both,” she said, gesturing toward the door with her head.  “And give it a good long while before you come back, yes?”

 

They all laughed at that, including Dís.

 

Bofur stood with as much dignity as he could muster and looked over to say something appropriately witty to Thorin, hoping to deflect his dismay a bit.

 

Every comment he had planned in his head flew right back out of it when he saw that Thorin was blushing.

 

Thorin Oakenshield.  Was _blushing._

 

All that Bofur needed to know was answered in that one moment.

 

Suddenly full of bravado, he took Thorin’s hand and said, “On behalf of us both, I’d like to thank you for your supportive and considerate handling of this delicate matter.  And now the sooner you can all sod off, the better for everyone, please and thank you.”

 

Bombur and Dwalin roared at that, and Dís clapped her hands in delight.

 

Bofur was rather pleased with himself.  He thought he’d done quite well under the circumstances.  He then gave a cheeky bow and garnered even wilder laughter.

 

Míla blearily raised her head off her mother’s shoulder and, looking around, said, “Very loud.  Papa, too loud.  You - ”

 

Then she lay her head back down and fell back asleep.

 

Bofur raised an eyebrow at his brother and said, “Truer words were never spoken.  You are in fact too loud and I think everyone would agree on that.”

 

“That’s not all everyone would agree on, _brother_ ,” Bombur nearly purred.

 

Bofur decided to call it a draw and leave with a scrap of honor intact.

 

He looked back at Thorin, whose hand he still held, and said, “Shall we?”

 

Thorin’s smile was the sweetest response he could have hoped for.

 

*

 

They settled on the front porch of the small house.  It was set back a bit from the street, in the shadow of the mountain though not within it.  

 

Ered Luin was built primarily on the side of the mountain and on its gentle slopes as the interior was considered too unstable for the city proper.

 

It was a warm and quiet night.  The bustle of the taverns was further down the mountainside; here, it was peaceful and still, with only the whisper of music reaching up to them.

 

The porch was largely enclosed, so they sat one on each side, covered in shadows, looking at each other quietly.

 

Bofur spoke first, breaking the silence.

 

“I should apologize for my brother,” he said.  “I know he’s a bit crass but he has a big heart, I can promise you that.  You will never find anyone more loyal than Bombur, unless it is my cousin, of course.”

 

Thorin smiled.

 

“Has it always been the three of you?” he asked.

 

Bofur stretched his legs out and crossed his feet at the ankles.

 

“Yes,” he said simply.  “Our mum died giving birth to Bombur and our pa died in the mines when we were small.  Bifur raised us.  And as soon as I was old enough I went to work alongside him in those same mines.”

 

Thorin made a small sound of sympathy.

 

Bofur shook his head.

 

“There’s no need for that,” he said a bit gruffly.  “It’s what we do to care for our family, yes?  Any dwarf would do the same.”

 

Thorin said nothing, and then -

 

“How old were you?  When you started down there?”

 

Bofur hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Not old enough.”

 

They sat in silence once more.

 

Then Bofur asked -

 

“How old were you when Smaug came?”

 

Thorin smiled again, but this time it was sharp and bitter.

 

“Not old enough,” he said.

 

Bofur looked down at his hands and then said, “Twenty eight.”

 

The silence seemed suddenly very loud.

 

And then Thorin said, “Twenty four.”

 

Bofur looked up.

 

Thorin smiled at him again, but the bitterness was gone.

 

Bofur smiled back.

 

“We were right,” he said.  “Not old enough.”

 

*

 

The lilt of conversation from within the small house was soft but comforting as Bofur and Thorin sat together in the darkness, a little closer than they had been before.

 

“My mother died when Smaug attacked,” Thorin said.

 

Bofur sighed.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  “It’s no easy thing to lose your mother.  I was only seventeen, I can hardly remember mine but I miss her terribly, even now.”  He smiled to himself.  “I remember she had very warm hands.  Rough and warm.”

 

Thorin moved closer still, and his hand reached out to rest on Bofur’s outstretched legs.

 

“My mother’s hands were so soft, like velvet,” Thorin said, his hand tracing patterns lightly onto Bofur’s calves.

 

Bofur frowned.

 

“Velvet?” he asked.

 

Thorin looked surprised.

 

“It’s a fabric,” he explained.  “Silk usually, or sometimes cotton.  It’s woven…” he trailed off, looking flustered.  “Never mind, you’ll just have to take my word.  It’s very soft.”

 

Bofur huffed out a small laugh and gently knocked Thorin’s hands with his knee.

 

“It’s all right that you know of things I don’t,” he said gently.  “I don’t mind.  You’ve lived a different life, after all.”

 

Thorin huffed, and looked down at his hands on Bofur’s legs.

 

“For a time, I suppose that was true,” he said.  “But life outside Erebor has been far from easy for us.  There are few who care what we once were, and many who are happy to treat us with even less respect than the lowest animal once they discover we are Durins.”

 

Bofur reached his hand out to grasp Thorin’s.  He squeezed it for a brief moment and then dropped it again.  

 

“It is not easy to be poor,” he said, “but I imagine it is much harder to be poor after one has been wealthy.  And harder still to be taken advantage of because of a name.”

 

Thorin sighed.

 

“No matter,” he said.  “Your people were generous enough to let us settle here, and here we hope to find a new beginning.”

 

Bofur shifted his legs, folding them in front of himself as he sat up and leaned a little toward Thorin.

 

“Here’s to new beginnings,” he said.

 

*

 

He said it so quietly Bofur could only hear that he’d spoken, and not what he’d actually said.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

There was a pause, and then Thorin said in a low voice, “I had a brother once, too.  Younger than me but older than Dís.”

 

Bofur waited, but Thorin didn’t continue.

 

“What was his name?” he finally asked.

 

Thorin looked at him, his eyes filled with sorrow.

 

“Frerin,” he said simply.

 

“Frerin,” Bofur repeated softly.  “That’s a fine name.”

 

“Aye,” Thorin said.  “He was a fine brother.”

 

Bofur reached his hand out, and Thorin took it and squeezed.

 

They were quiet again.

 

*

 

They sat side by side, shoulders pressed together, fingers entwined.

 

Thorin’s thumb rubbed Bofur’s palm almost lazily, and he drew his fingers apart from Bofur’s briefly only to grasp them again and run his up and down against them, smoothly and slowly.

 

The sensuality of the gesture was making Bofur dizzy.

 

“Why…” he tried but his tongue felt thick, too big for his mouth.  He swallowed and tried again, so deliciously distracted by what Thorin was doing to his hand.

 

“Why am I here?”

 

Thorin paused briefly, and then continued, intensifying and complicating everything by leaning in just a bit and running his other hand in a small circle around Bofur’s knee.

 

“Because you want to be, I should hope,” he said.  “I’ll be terribly disappointed if it’s out of any sort of obligation.”

 

Bofur rolled his eyes and then realized it was perhaps too dark for Thorin to see it.

 

“I just rolled my eyes,” he explained instead.

 

Thorin barked out a surprised laugh.

 

“Do you always narrate your physical gestures?” he asked, amused.

 

Bofur laughed quietly.  “Only when they are too good to be missed,” he said, leaning in even closer.

 

They were now sitting not only shoulder to shoulder but also knee to knee.

 

“And no,” he continued, “I’m definitely not here out of duty or some such.  I would have thought that clear after my behavior this afternoon.”

 

Thorin laughed again, gently and quietly, and Bofur closed his eyes and let it wash right over him.

 

“You are here because I find you fascinating,” Thorin said finally, very softly.  “Because I have never met anyone like you.  Because I have not cared in so long and had begun to think I never would.”

 

His fingers started sweeping very tentatively up Bofur’s arm, just a bit, only to the elbow, and back down again.  His eyes followed his fingers, as if he had never seen such a wondrous sight.

 

Bofur leaned closer still, and hesitated only a moment before resting his head on Thorin’s chest.

 

“Those are good reasons,” he whispered.

 

He could hear the other’s heart pounding, loudly and quickly, and he smiled to himself.

 

Thorin exhaled sharply and then whispered back, “And now you can hear for yourself just what you do to me.”

 

Bofur pressed his face deeper, pulling Thorin’s tunic toward him and burying his face in it.

 

The scent of him...thick and rich and strong.  It made his mouth water and his heart race and he wanted to climb into his lap and never leave again.

 

He felt a hand in his hair, pulling his braids gently and shaking them loose.

 

“Bofur,” Thorin murmured. “Bofur.”

 

Bofur pulled him tighter, clinging on to him, clutching him closer and closer.

 

He felt Thorin bury his face in his now unbound hair, and breathe deeply.

 

Bofur moaned a little, and shifted his knees, trying to hide his arousal.

 

“Don’t,” Thorin whispered.  “Please, don’t pull away.”

 

Bofur laughed a little, and held Thorin more tightly.

 

“It’s just…” he started and then stopped when he felt Thorin’s mouth against the back of his neck, his breath hot, so so hot.

 

“Ohh...” he breathed, closing his eyes.  “What are you…?”

 

Thorin growled softly, and Bofur groaned.

 

“Yes?” Thorin whispered.  “Bofur, yes?”

 

Bofur nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

 

“Say it,” Thorin whispered.

 

“Yes,” Bofur whimpered softly, so hard he could not think straight.  Thorin’s hands caressing his hair and his arm, so gently and carefully but with so much heat, so much purpose - oh, he had never felt desire like this, never never _never._

 

“Thorin, yes - please.”

 

The hand in his hair tightened and tugged a bit, and Bofur let his head be pulled up off Thorin’s chest. The hand that had been softly rubbing his arm came up and gently smoothed the hair off his face and ran down to cup his cheek.

 

And then Thorin leaned in and kissed him.

 

*

 

Bofur was not without experience.

 

He was a firm believer in providing and receiving pleasure, as much as possible, and he prided himself on giving just as good as he got.

 

There was nothing he hadn’t done or tried or thought about and absolutely nothing he wasn’t game for.

 

He had never, in all his days, been kissed like this.

 

Thorin took his time, his lips soft and lingering, his hands holding Bofur’s face firmly but not tightly.   It was almost chaste, their first kiss, sweetly gentle and full of promise.

 

When he finally swept his tongue lightly against Bofur’s lips, Bofur parted them with a eager whine and surged forward to straddle Thorin and deepen their kiss.

 

Thorin’s hands dropped down to grip Bofur’s hips before sliding down to cup his rear and squeeze it gently, making Bofur groan again, louder than before but far past caring.

 

He dimly heard a humming sound, long and low with hardly a pause for breath and realized it was him, humming in his pleasure.

 

After what felt like a lifetime and yet not nearly long enough, Thorin broke their kiss and leaned back to look into Bofur’s eyes, his hands still holding his face gently.

 

“Bofur,” he murmured again, his face full of joy.  “My Bofur.”

 

Bofur nodded, and leaned in to nuzzle his nose alongside Thorin’s, his lips brushing over Thorin’s eyes and temples.

 

“Yours and only yours,” he said, his eyes dark and wild.  “Now and for always.”

 

Thorin smiled and it was like looking into the sun.

 

“After all this time,” he said wonderously, his hands carding through Bofur’s wavy hair, “All this time, and I’ve finally come home.”  

 


End file.
